


negotiations

by mstigergun



Series: Inglorious [13]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Break Up, Pre-Relationship, ferelden nobility, politicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I swear to the Maker,” he hisses in an irritated whisper, “if Ser Boris insists he’s duelled one more person who doesn’t exist or if </i>Lady Gemma<i> tries to touch my hand again, I will stab myself through the heart. I have a knife in my boot. I </i>could<i>.”</i></p><p>Leonid and Basten attend a dinner and try their hand at being friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	negotiations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delphox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delphox/gifts).



> Prompted by [weyrbound](http://weyrbound.tumblr.com) for [the Signs of Affection prompts](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/132414623788/signs-of-affection-romance-prompt-meme) (a whisper). Set after ["The Stone Tree”](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Inglorious/works/4799615) and before [“Wild is the Wind”](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Inglorious/works/5004538) \-- so, before Basten and Leonid officially start not-dating again. And this is also before they _really_ start sleeping together in this in-between place. Like, Leonid is making an effort here. To what end, we don't know.
> 
> First posted on [Tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/132752734203/6-leonidbasten).

> 6\. a whisper [after ‘The Stone Tree,’ before ‘wild is the wind’]

*

Leonid smiles blithely at the man. Anyone else might mistake the expression for pleasant.

Basten knows better.

“ _Really_ ,” Leonid says, when the chevalier in question has finished his tale about a duel he’d once fought in Ostwick. “How very odd. I’ve never actually  _heard_  of that family, but, then, that was a great many years ago. I would have still been unable to walk – though, admittedly, that does happen now and again when I’ve been a little too liberal with my drink. Then, though, it was because of infancy. Now, wickedness, but only in appropriate measure.”

The chevalier – Ser Boris, whose name Leonid had been purposefully mispronouncing as  _Ser Bore-us_  all evening – blinks for a moment, his fork hovering before his mouth, as though he’s not quite sure how to begin responding to that series of thinly veiled jibes.

He doesn’t have to worry about it, though, because Lord Torren’s eldest daughter laughs so loudly that the conversation around the table pauses. “Appropriate measure!” repeats the young woman, whose name Basten keeps forgetting. “And tell me, Lord Trevelyan, what is the  _appropriate measure_  for wickedness?”

“Oh,” sighs Leonid, “Enough to have fun. Not so much as to get  _caught_. Though I’m certain you know all about that, my dearest Lady Gemma.” He shoots her an indulgent smile, with a wink at her parents.

Lord Torren blusters for a moment, flushed with drink, as Gemma and her mother launch into a series of exchanges across the long table. Ser Borris huffs, looking distantly irritated at having his story so summarily  _moved on from_  while the other gathering of guests dissolve into knots of brief, tittering laughter and conversation.

It’s chaos, but a chaos that pretends at refinement.

Basten hates it.

He glances at Leonid, who’s leaned back in his chair and watches the entire proceeding with a bright, perceptive stare. He looks entirely at home, head tilted, the smallest smirk curving his mouth, and done up in the fine garb Lady Montilyet had sent him with.

Basten shifts in his own seat, tugging on the edges of his own regalia, which is stiff and  _tight_. Leonid had taken one look in him in the red uniform, and had –

Well, at first he’d laughed, but then he’d nearly walked into a wall, so Basten knows how he looks.

“Enough talk of wickedness for the evening!” Lord Torren cries, after a long, booming laugh at something his wife snapped at their daughter. “Why don’t we retreat to the parlour, Lord Trevelyan, and see if we can’t speak of virtue instead. Namely, the virtue of coming together for a common cause.”

“Of course,” Leonid says, flashing the man a dazzling smile. “So long as that common cause includes a  _digestif_. Rumours are that you’ve an exceptional cellar, my lord, and I have been without fine brandy for  _far_  too long.”

Everyone rises after Torren sends a servant scurrying down to the cellars below their estate and then heaves himself up. The man makes his way toward the parlour on stiff knees, the others in the room trailing behind him.

Leonid murmurs pleasantries to Torren's other guests as he waves them all on, lingering at the banquet table. “I just need a word with my companion,” he offers as Lady Gemma hesitates in the doorway, staring after him with liquid eyes and breathy delight.

She nodes her head with a dewey smile, leaving Leonid and Basten alone.

Well, not  _alone_. The parlour is just on the other side of the thin wall behind them, and it wouldn’t be  _nobility_  if  _someone_  wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

All the same, the moment she leaves, Leonid heaves out a hard, brief sigh. He turns on Basten with a shake of his head. “I swear to the Maker,” he hisses in an irritated whisper, “if Ser Boris insists he’s duelled one more person who doesn’t exist or if  _Lady Gemma_  tries to touch my hand again, I will stab myself through the heart. I have a knife in my boot. I  _could_.”

Basten laughs, low. He leans against the high back of one of the chairs. “You’re doing well,” he offers.

Leonid huffs. “I know I am, and I hate myself for it. I’d be far better served if I were  _shit_  at all of this.” He pauses, leaning a little closer. “And  _you’re_  holding up well?”

He would shrug if he didn’t feel like doing so might rip the seams of his uniform. “If by holding up well, you mean counting down the moments until we can leave,” he says, quiet, “then  _sure_.”

That wins him a quick smile, as Leonid smooths the wrinkles from the front of his finery. “Better than most, then. Though – I  _am_  sorry for dragging you along but –” He stops. Shifts in his soft, pale boots, mouth curling into a thin frown. “I am glad to have you, even if you’re cursing my name. I didn’t expect you to actually come.”

Basten tilts his head. “Why?” he asks, studying Leonid’s face – the way his gaze keeps dropping away, the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the uneasy way he’s fussing with the cuffs of his shirt. “I told you I would. You’re the one who  _stepped on toes_. You need me.”

“If only I could step on  _Gemma’s_  toes and put her off,” he sighs. Leonid takes half a step toward the door, casting a long, suspicious look at the dark frame. Then, turning back to Basten and lowering his volume to the mere suggestion of words, “I know you  _said_  you would, but – After  _things_. You know. I would have understood if you wanted nothing to do with me.”

Basten straightens, the cut of his uniform suddenly feeling that much tighter. “You said we could stay friends,” he supplies, feeling an uncomfortable heat prickle at the base of his neck. “Just that the rest of it had to go.”

He remembers the words as if Leonid had spoken them earlier in the day.  _The rest of it has to stop_. He remembers how hard it had been to breathe for a moment, how small he’d felt – which was weird, because that’s not a feeling he’s used to. Not one he ever would have anticipated, in any case.

It’s one thing to be sent from someone’s bed. It’s another to –

Well. It’s complicated.  _They’re_  complicated.

“Well, yes,” Leonid murmurs, arms folded tight across his chest. “And we are, aren’t we? Friends? I mean, why else would subject yourself to this blighted  _dinner party_?”

He could say  _because you asked, and so it matters_.

Basten knows enough not to.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, with a brief, crooked smile because Kubrasan said he needed to  _give the spitfire time_. “Watching you do this is a bit impressive. Entertaining, even, when I’m not picking up the wrong fork or being looked at like I’m going to go on a rampage at any moment.”

“Or set everything on fire. Or kill the whole lot of them with your  _mind_ ,” Leonid says, with a wistful sigh. “Oh, we can’t talk about this. It will leave me terribly distracted. These trousers are tight enough, Basten, without having me think about you  _killing stupid nobles_  while you’re dressed like  _that_.”

Basten laughs, the back of his neck now flushed for a different reason. Folds his own arms across his chest, mirroring Leonid’s posture. Leonid’s stare catches on the shape of his arms for a moment, flicking down to his hips and then –

“It hardly matters,” Basten says, quiet. “Since you can’t do anything about it anyway.”

Leonid scoffs. For a moment, and maybe because of the dim light cast by the candelabras overhead, it looks as if his cheeks darken. Then he sniffs, looks away again. “True. Well, shall we see if we can’t secure those trebuchets and armoured horses? And maybe we’ll save a little time for  _rampaging_  at the end. I’d rather that than stabbing myself through the heart.”

“I suppose some time is the parlour is better than death,” Basten says. “Barely.”

Leonid laughs again, a hushed sound, quiet against the noise from the room next door. He reaches out, hand touching Basten’s forearm. A brief touch, but warm in a way that makes Basten’s chest tighten. “Yes,” Leonid breathes, “ _barely_.”

Like that, he turns and trails out of the room – out to the negotiations beyond, which he’ll charm his way through. Basten takes a steadying breath, again tugging on the edges of his uniform, and follows. For now, that’s all he can do.


End file.
